


stupid/sweet/nice/perfect

by ryuuzaou



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Anxious David Rose, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, M/M, Patrick Brewer loves David Rose, Post-Episode: s05e06 Rock On!, comfort cuddles, sort of dialogue heavy, way too many em dashes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-15 03:28:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28681830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryuuzaou/pseuds/ryuuzaou
Summary: David isn’t good at love, and he doesn’t like doing things he’s not good at. Well. Maybe it’s less because he’s not good at it, and maybe,maybeit’s because he’s… afraid of it. Afraid, because every time the wordlovehas crossed his mind in the past, it was always followed up by something incredibly unpleasant. Every time. Without fail.So what the fuck is Patrick still doing here?(in which David thinks about his past, and Patrick helps him think about his future)
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Comments: 13
Kudos: 144





	stupid/sweet/nice/perfect

**Author's Note:**

> i know i have another fic to write but i've been binging schitt's creek and this one just sort of happened. also i'm projecting but that's nothing new

_“I couldn’t do it._ ”

It’s four hours later. 

Patrick drove David to his apartment, after Alexis started cooing at them and adding some _delightful_ color commentary to their kiss in the motel room. David certainly didn’t expect to get to see Patrick’s apartment tonight, certainly didn’t imagine he’d want to. Spending the afternoon thinking about his boyfriend with another man will do that. Or, really, thinking about his boyfriend with _anyone_ else will do that. 

And it’s all David can think about. 

Uncharacteristically, even after downing a few glasses of wine, David had been reluctant to accept and/or reciprocate the physical affection he was receiving on the couch. He’d claimed that the movie was unmissable, truly, how could Patrick stand to turn away from the plucky young protagonist right now when she’s a scene away from her moment of truth? And Patrick, beloved Patrick, sweet Patrick, _nice_ Patrick, had gotten the hint and eased up, settling for leaning against David with a hand on his knee. His fingers twitched, tapped, like Patrick wanted to do much more with his hand than nothing at all, but he’d respected David’s unspoken wall that he’d put up. The same way he respects all the others. Respected him all the way into the bed, lying down beside his boyfriend and not touching, not snuggling, even though David _knows_ Patrick and Patrick’s bedtime routine and how much Patrick loves pressing himself up against David and falling asleep tangled together. Patrick loves that. But Patrick loves David too, for some ungodly reason, and Patrick shows his love by respecting David’s boundaries. 

And David doesn’t _get it._

He’s pretty sure Patrick is asleep by now, so he lets himself heave out a sigh as he pulls the blankets up to his nose. As he does, he can’t help the little smile that tugs at his lips. Back when Patrick lived with Ray, his blankets used to smell like cheap laundry detergent and boring deodorant. Of course, David expressed his distaste, and Patrick had laughed him off. But now, they smell faintly of Patrick’s sensible cologne and strongly of the fancy fabric softener David told Patrick months ago was his favorite, and a tiny part of David falls in love a little bit more—

Nope.

Nuh-uh.

Oh, no. Absolutely not.

David is not _in love_ with Patrick. David has never been _in love_ with anyone. He’s barely even _loved_ anyone (Mariah aside. She doesn’t count). It’s smarter for David not to love anyone. It’s safer for David not to love anyone. 

An example: The very first night that David thought, _Maybe I do kinda love this guy_ about a very winsome producer of a docu-series based around every New York City building that’s been haunted by the ghost of a prostitute (which, in hindsight, should have raised more than a few red flags from the get-go), the producer had sent a break-up text the next morning. From across the bed. He had gone into great detail about his nightly outings with the narrator of his series, and about how much better at sucking dick said narrator was and that since that’s pretty much all David’s been good for those past few weeks, David was no longer a ‘necessary piece’ of the ‘grand puzzle of Stupid-Producer-Guy’s life.’ 

His words. Though, David’s pretty sure he’d used his name. A name David refuses to remember, not just because of the messy breakup, but also because Stupid-Producer-Guy had referred to himself in the third person with a startling frequency, making any conversation with him incredibly unpleasant the longer it went on. This, perhaps, should have also raised another dozen red flags. But David was young and lonely and the guy was cute enough and that was like, a decade ago, why is he still thinking about it?

Oh, right. He’s dwelling on the terrors of love. 

Another example: the gorgeous artist with the gorgeous magenta faux-hawk. They had a few paintings on display at David’s gallery, including a model whose waist-long hair the artist had colored with pigments derived only from fruits and vegetables. They’d dated David for a while, and they were fun and interesting to talk to, and super fun to fuck, and maybe it was the last detail that made David accidentally use the L-word in his mind a few weeks in. As if they were telepathic, they told David next time he saw them that they were desperately in love with their model, but they appreciated the way that David had given them all the best spots in the gallery while they were dating and yeah, that made sense. Of course the most interesting artist David hosted was only using him for career advancement. They’d needed to, considering that their model’s hair color looked murky and blocky and terribly blended, but David had never said anything about it. And he never did, not even as he watched them walk out of his gallery door with their hands in each other’s back pockets. David never said a word.

So, no, David has not had very many pleasant experiences vis-a-vis the concept of romantic love. It’s easier to avoid it entirely. Much easier. Because David isn’t good at love, and he doesn’t like doing things he’s not good at. He’s good at short-term, no-strings-attached hookups, because those don’t require any consideration of feelings or whatever. _This,_ this whole thing, this Patrick thing, this isn’t what he’s good at. This is ‘outside his playing field’ or whatever Patrick would say. 

Well. Maybe it’s less because he’s not good at it, and maybe, _maybe_ it’s because he’s… afraid of it. Afraid, because every time the word _love_ has crossed his mind in the past, it was always followed up by something incredibly unpleasant. Every time. Without fail. 

David’s never been good enough for anyone. Not his lovers. Not his family. Not himself. 

So what the fuck is Patrick still doing here? When’s it all going to inevitably fall apart? Shouldn’t he just kick-start it, get it over with, before it hurts too much for him to be able to stand it and _he’ll_ fall apart, too? 

David turns from his back to his side, curling up with his back to Patrick. He tries not to cry, and judging by the wetness pooling by his temple, he very much fails. He swallows, sniffles, wipes his face on the pillowcase and clutches the blankets tightly. He doesn’t want to lose this. He doesn’t want to _not_ be with Patrick. He doesn’t want to think of a future where he’s lying in someone else’s bed, thinking about the horror story of his love life, and Patrick’s name is just another in his long list of failed escapades. He doesn’t want that. But it’s inevitable, right? David’s not good at love. He’s not good at anything with people. It’s better to be by himself. 

Why is that so hard to believe, now? It’s what he’s been telling himself for a decade, and he’s been able to believe it, up to this point. But now Patrick, stupid, nice, _perfect_ Patrick has come in and shoved his hands into the self-deprecating pile of glitter-putty (ew) that is David’s heart and has started giving it a shape. Giving him hope.

Fuck.

“Fuck,” David mutters, squeezing his eyes shut and feeling a few more tears get forced loose of his lashes. This is pathetic. _He’s_ pathetic. 

“Hey,” Patrick breathes, a gentle hand on his shoulder and quiet voice in his ear. “What’s wrong, David?”

“Nothing,” he lies, with a small sniffle he hopes Patrick doesn’t notice but knows that he does. “I’m fine. Go back to sleep.”

“I wasn’t sleeping.” His hand drifts down David’s arm, then back up to his shoulder. He squeezes. Soothing. Grounding. “Honestly, I’ve been waiting for _you_ to fall asleep.”

David snaps, “And what’s the point of that?” and he immediately regrets how harsh it sounds. He almost adds, ‘Just waiting to get up and get away from me?’ but he doesn’t. Just barely doesn’t. 

He feels Patrick’s forehead press against the back of his neck. “Because you’re here, in my apartment, in my bed, and I’m not holding you, and that just doesn’t feel right. But I don’t want to push you, so I was going to wait ‘til you fell asleep, because you get really snuggly right after you fall asleep, and I was gonna let that tide me over. But you haven’t fallen asleep yet, and I was getting impatient.” A soft press of lips to his skin. “What’s wrong, David?”

Stupid. Nice. Perfect. _Fuck._

“I don’t—” David sighs again. This one is much shakier. “I just—it just—damn it.” He curls up tighter. He feels Patrick back up, just barely, just enough to give him space, and David wishes he’d press closer. “I’m not good at this.” 

“Good at what, David?” 

“ _This._ ” David waves his hand vaguely. “All of this. This, this _relationship…_ thing. Boyfriends. Whatever. I’m not good at it.”

“Says who?” Patrick asks, and David forces himself not to shiver as his breath ghosts over the nape of his neck. 

“Says me. Says everyone. Says every single ex I’ve ever had. I’m bad at feelings and being nice and being thoughtful and all of it.” 

Patrick hums. “I think you’re wrong.” 

Their contact burns. David sits up, stays curled up in a ball, chin on his knees and hugging his legs. “I’m not, though. I’m really not good at this. Have you not noticed the way I keep sabotaging our relationship, time and time again? Or did you miss the past day and all the days before that?”

Patrick pushes himself up to a sitting position, so close to leaning his shoulder against David’s but not quite doing so. “Why do you think you’re ‘sabotaging our relationship?’” He bends his fingers, air-quoting David’s words. 

“Because—I mean, is it not obvious?” David huffs, flexing his fingers. “I’m—shit, I don’t know. Because I’m bad at this.”

“That’s not a real reason, David, because you’re _not_ bad at this.” Patrick’s voice is so soft. It’s unbearable. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, but I think there’s more to it than that.”

“Oh, you think so, do you?” There’s an edge to his voice that David already wishes he could take back. “Fine. You know what? You’re right. You’re right, Patrick, there _is_ more to it than that.” He throws off the blanket, getting out of bed and beginning to pace. Patrick watches him, lets him work through his anxious energy because he’s sweet and nice and perfect. “I feel like I’m bad at love because— _ugh._ Because that’s easier. That’s an easier thing for me to think than the reality of the situation. The reality that it’s not me being bad at love, it’s just me not being _enough._ For anyone. Ever. I’ve never, _ever_ been good enough for anyone, and that’s not something I can just let go of!” He squats in a weird little ball on the floor, but it feels wrong, so he gets back up and sits down on the edge of the bed. “And every time that I think that I’m getting somewhere with it, every time I think that hey, maybe I _was_ wrong, maybe I _could_ be good at this, everything comes crashing down around me. Every single fucking time.” His voice is small as he finishes, “...How could that be anything but my fault? Am I wrong for trying to—trying to protect myself?”

Of course he’s crying again. This time, the tears are going _down_ his cheeks, and are rendering the under-eye cream he’d applied before bed a waste of time. Much like this conversation. In his experience, crying out his feelings in front of anyone (has he done this before? Talked about his feelings, maybe, but cried?) is the most reliably sure-fire way to make the witness hate him forever. Another tally on the Times David Rose Has Sabotaged His Relationship board—or, realistically, it’d be a spreadsheet, if Patrick had any say, but that’s not the point right now. 

Speaking of Patrick. There’s a soft exhale from behind him, and when David glances up out of the corner of his eye, he sees his boyfriend getting out of bed. He doesn’t sit down next to David, but instead, walks over toward the door. David is certain that Patrick is going to leave, but is confused when he… doesn’t. He stops by the couch, picks up the throw blanket, and turns around, and he’s coming _back_ toward David, why the hell would he do that? Isn’t he going to leave? Isn’t he going to laugh? That’s what he should be doing. That’s what anybody in their sound mind should be doing.

So Patrick must not be of sound mind, because he wraps the blanket around David’s shoulders and leaves an arm there, light enough that David can shake him off if he wants. David realizes that this particular blanket is from one of their vendors, described as ‘loose-chunky knit with extreme yarn’ (David did not understand but refused to allow the vendor to repeat it). It’s heavy, though, and warm, and after David first used it he realized it— 

It helps with his anxiety.

He never told Patrick that it helps with his anxiety. 

Stupid/sweet/nice/perfect Patrick had noticed that this blanket calms David down when he’s upset. And, upon seeing David upset, he has brought him something to help. 

“Fuck!” David says again, with vigor that may have been intimidating if not for the way his voice breaks. Patrick almost moves away, but David grabs the hand on his shoulder, holding him there. “Sorry. There’s a blanket on the bed, you know that, right?”

Patrick gives him that cute little half-smile. “I, ah, noticed that this one is good pressure therapy for you. The comforter isn’t as, well, comforting.” 

Is it the pressure? Oh, it probably is, because another thing that always makes him feel better is when Patrick holds his shoulders, thumbs rubbing the skin above the collar of his sweater. Yeah, the pressure helps then, too. 

“How did _you_ know pressure helps me?” David asks, voice still edged in the snark that protects him. “ _I_ didn’t know pressure helps me until this moment. Why do you know that?”

Patrick turns a bit so he can better face David, the weight of his arm and the blanket over his shoulders doing exactly what it needs to, right along with the sincerity and emotion in his beautiful brown eyes. “I know that because I love you, David. And loving you means helping you through situations that make you anxious, and since there are kind of a lot of those, I make sure I watch you when you’re comforting yourself so I can do it, too.” 

“Are you gonna get me a bottle of wine, then?”

“I am not, no. David, listen.” Patrick swallows. His eyes look shiny in the low light and David can’t figure out why. “You have always been, and always _will_ be, enough for me. More than enough, sometimes—” 

“Don’t push it.” 

“—but I want you to know, I am not your exes. I don’t love you for your money, or for your lifestyle, or because you’re useful to me. I love you because you’re _you._ When you’re scared, or anxious, or angry, or emotional, I love you just as much as when you’re tolerable.”

“Excuse me?”

“Kidding. Sorry. Not good timing.”

David, though he’d never admit it, can feel his lips quirking to the side the way they do when he’s trying to hide a smile. “You’re pushing it. I told you not to push it. Are you trying to make me feel better or not?”

“I am, I am,” Patrick assures, and he reaches up to hold David’s cheek in his free hand as if to prove it. “I will never hurt you on purpose, David. I promise. I love you, so, so much. You don’t have to protect yourself from me. And if you have to protect yourself from the rest of the world, please let me help you with that. I want to help you, with anything, through anything, no matter what.” Slowly, giving time to pull away, Patrick leans in and presses a gentle kiss to David’s lips, then rests their foreheads together. “Also, I think that if I ever hurt you, Stevie will literally stab out my eyes with a letter opener.” 

David can’t stop the breathless laugh that escapes him. “You’re not wrong.” He wraps the blanket tighter around himself. Closing his eyes, he focuses on the comforting pressure from where Patrick is touching him, and from the warmth of the heavy yarn. He takes a deep breath. “Thank you, Patrick,” he murmurs, and the tear that clings to his lashes isn’t from sorrow. Far from it.

They stay like that for a few more moments, forehead-to-forehead and breathing each other’s air, until David’s huge yawn. Patrick huffs a laugh, taking the blanket from his shoulders with one last kiss to his cheekbone. He tosses it back onto the couch, then lies back down on the bed, and it takes little urging for David to do the same. Patrick takes it upon himself to make David comfortable, tugging the sheets up to David’s nose before he settles against David’s back. Ordinarily, David is content to fall asleep like this, but tonight, it’s not quite what he needs. 

And since Patrick made it very clear he wants to be what David needs, David feels no shame when he shifts their position so he can turn over. One of Patrick’s hands rests on David’s waist, his thumb doing that soft stroke it always does when he touches David, while the other is palm-up between them. David takes this as an invitation and intertwines their fingers, squeezing as he slips his knee between Patrick’s and uses that to pull him closer. He takes a moment to stare into Patrick’s eyes, crinkled up at the corners with an enamored smile, and he finds himself feeling completely, wholeheartedly safe with someone for the first time in… ever. 

“I love you, too,” David whispers, with a little kiss to the edge of Patrick’s smile. “You… make me feel like I deserve to be loved. And _that’s_ something that _nobody_ has made me feel.” 

“Glad I can do the honors,” Patrick replies. The kiss he returns is stronger, his hand slipping under David’s sleep shirt so his thumb can trace his hip.

Reluctantly, and not until after enjoying it for a bit, David breaks the kiss before it can get too much farther. “I love this, and you, but I need to take a pause ‘til morning, ‘cause all that crying really took it out of me and I’m _super_ fucking tired.”

Patrick squeezes, both David’s hand and his hip. “So sleep.”

“Good idea. Goodnight, Patrick. Dream of Stevie and Alexis coming at your skull with brass candlesticks if you ever make me cry.”

“Oh, so Alexis will be taking part, too?”

“Of course.”

“Of course. I love you, David. Goodnight.”

“I love you, too. But seriously. Maybe lead pipes.”

“Goodnight, David.”

**Author's Note:**

> hmu on [twitter!!](https://twitter.com/sickvaeolus)


End file.
